Jojo got in on the passenger side. “Maybe I should take Mrs. Salvi’s car,” he mimicked, doing his best to imitate Tommy Boy’s deadpan delivery.
“Did I do something wrong?” Tommy said.
“My father pisses all over everything I say, so you have to act like some kind of consigliere? You’re a soldier, Tommy Boy. Nothing more.”
“Come on, man,” Tommy Boy said, turning left onto Cross Bay Boulevard. “I’m almost thirty years old. I’m family. I’m too smart to be a soldier all my life.”
Jojo spun around in his seat. “Listen to me, asshole. You’re twenty-six years old, which doesn’t count as almost thirty. You’re married to my mother’s cousin’s daughter, so you’re not blood family. And if you were as smart as you think you are, you wouldn’t try to show me up in front of my old man.”
Tommy Boy laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. It’s the same thing every time with you, Jojo. Your old man treats you like crap, so you take it out on me. It’s called transference.”
“And you know what this is called?” Jojo said, sticking up his middle finger. “It’s called shut up and drive to the goddamn police station.”
“Sure thing, Jojo. Maybe when we get there I can run in and pick us up a parade permit.”
Chapter 67
If you’re going to get shot in New York City, Harlem Hospital is one of the best places you can go. It’s a Level 1 Trauma Center conveniently located only six blocks from where Shawn Hooks took three bullets.
It’s also one of the most architecturally striking new buildings in the city. One entire glass facade—six stories high and a city block long—is covered with reproductions of colorful murals originally commissioned by the WPA during the Depression and painted by African American artists. It’s a symbol of community pride on the outside, but I knew that the harsh realities of the street were waiting for us inside.
Alma Hooks was petite, no more than five feet at best. She was physically fit, but judging by the drawn face, the red eyes, and the clenched hands, she was emotionally whipped.
She stood up as soon as we entered the room. “Thank you for coming. Did Delia explain?”
“Yes, she did. And thank you for calling us,” I said. “How’s your son doing?”
“He’s still in pain, but the nurse gave him another shot of Toradol an hour ago. He’s a strong boy. The doctors say it’ll take time, but he’ll be fine.”
“And how are you doing?” Kylie said.
“Me? I’m shell-shocked. I haven’t slept since they called me Tuesday night. But I’m grateful.”
“And you called because you think Shawn may have witnessed a crime?” I said.
“The Tin Man,” she said. “Antoine Tinsdale. He was a drug dealer. He corrupted these neighborhood boys something awful. You raise them with good values, teach them to do the right thing, then he comes along dressed like a rock star, driving a Mercedes, and he promises them the moon, and they fall for it. They’re just kids.”
She didn’t say whether or not Shawn was one of the kids Tinsdale had corrupted. She was simply underscoring what we already knew—these young drug runners were more victims than criminals. I was glad Cates had made a deal with her. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the cop who dug into her son’s past and possibly damaged his future.
“I’m not saying I’m sorry to see Tinsdale off the streets for good,” Alma said, looking at her son rather than at us, “but kidnapping him and killing him is no kind of justice. Not the kind of message you want to send to your children.”
“Can we ask your son some questions?” I said.
Shawn, who was under the covers, looked to be over six feet and close to two hundred pounds, but clearly the tiny woman at his side was in charge.
“Go ahead,” she said, still looking at Shawn. “He’s agreed to help in your investigation.”
“Shawn, my name is Detective Jordan, and this is my partner, Detective MacDonald. Whatever you say is just between us. We’ll try to make this brief. When did you last see Antoine Tinsdale?”
Shawn froze. Confessing to your mother is culturally acceptable. Talking to the cops isn’t.
Alma sat on the bed and stroked his forehead. “Go ahead, baby,” she said. “They’re cool. They’re friends of Miss Delia. Tell them when you last saw Antoine Tinsdale.”
“The night they took him.”
“Thank you,” she said, and passed the torch back to me with a single tilt of her head.
“Who took him?” I asked.